


After Life

by Vae



Category: Will (TV 2017)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-10-02 02:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17255546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/Vae
Summary: The afterlife is not at all as Kit had expected.His outspokenness had been his protection, even if Walsingham had never agreed with his methods. No one had ever believed that a braggart and an immoral playwright could be of any use as a spy for the Crown, and it had allowed him to stay in London, to embrace the vitality of life in the theatres, to watch talent rise from the simmering filth and grow to magnificence beyond all dreaming.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Macdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macdragon/gifts).



> This is about as historically accurate as the source material. So, more or less. Any anachronisms are probably intended.
> 
> Thanks to Kangeiko for the beta.

Death was turning out to be quite different from what Christopher Marlowe had expected.

It was, although he'd never confess it aloud, a relief not to actually discover himself dragged to hell kicking and screaming to be tortured eternally for the sins of his life. It was also a disappointment to find himself in the upstairs room of a Southwark tavern.

The afterlife was considerably more mundane than it had ever been painted in Kit's imagination.

"So I'm dead," he said, just to check.

"Officially," Tommy said, which wasn't as reassuring as it should have been. Something to do with Tommy's cousin being across the other side of the room, probably, although Kit had never concealed his nature from Walsingham or any man. (Topcliffe did not count among those classed as men. Topcliffe, Kit was certain, was a demon in a man's form.)

"Officially," Kit repeated flatly, turned, and paced across the room again, pressing the cloth to the cut above his eye. "How did I die?"

"It was necessary," Walsingham said. "Honestly, Marlowe, those pamphlets..."

"Were _not_ written by me," Kit said sharply. Honestly, indeed. "Do you truly believe that I would be so foolish as to put one of my characters' names to blasphemy that I was not paid for?"

Tamburlaine, of all characters. Kit's Tamburlaine would never deny the existence of God. Without God, who would Tamburlaine have left to outshine? 

"Regardless." Walsingham stood. "Thomas Kyd told us that the papers were yours."

"Thomas Kyd was tortured," Tommy said, not sounding happy about the idea. Soft-hearted, for all his political acuity, and be damned if that didn't make Kit love him more. "You've always said torture isn't the way to find the truth."

In this case, Kit suspected that the truth found had been convenient. Nine days in a row he'd presented himself for the Privy Council to question, and nine days in a row he had been turned away and required to return the next day. On the tenth day, he had been killed. In swiving Deptford.

"Thomas Kyd," Walsingham said firmly, "offered evidence."

"Thomas Kyd," Kit mimicked, swinging around sharply on his heel, "was a snivelling coward with barely any talent for writing, who didn't want to take no for an answer and who couldn't improve his writing by sucking the prick of genius." 

Tommy looked up, meeting Kit's eyes for a moment, and looked ridiculously relieved when Kit gave him a tiny shake of his head. As if he'd have let Kyd's foul breath anywhere near his prick.

"Thomas Kyd has been pardoned," Walsingham said, bracing himself against his cane and giving Kit a not entirely pleasant smile. "And you, Christopher Marlowe, are as dead as I am. A spy who boasts of his spying, rails against the existence of god and preaches immorality is no use to Her Majesty."

Kit stilled, focus sharpening on Walsingham's words. Sir Francis's funeral had taken place three years before, and yet the man stood before him, still in service to the Crown. He himself was but newly dead, and yet he was aware of an increasingly pressing need to piss. "Her Majesty has need of me?"

"Her Majesty has need of discreet men," Walsingham said, glaring at Kit. "What you practice in private is not of my interest, but you will, by God, stop making yourself conspicuous. It is exceedingly inconvenient for any agent, but more so for a dead man. You speak French?"

Kit's heart sank. His outspokenness had been his protection, even if Walsingham had never agreed with his methods. No one had ever believed that a braggart and an immoral playwright could be of any use as a spy for the Crown, and it had allowed him to stay in London, to embrace the vitality of life in the theatres, to watch talent rise from the simmering filth and grow to magnificence beyond all dreaming. "Un peu."

"Enough." Walsingham nodded. "Tommy will find you books and clothing. Your orders will come tomorrow. Be ready to sail on the evening tide."

Kit, silent in the face of this abrupt turn of fortune, swept an elaborate, mocking bow, holding it until he heard the shuffle and thump of Walsingham's robes and cane cross the floor, and the door close behind him.

"Kit," Tommy said, unseen because Kit still hadn't lifted his head. "Sit down before you fall."

Kit chose to fall instead, rolling into a seated position on the floor, peeling the cloth away from his head and staring in fascination at the browning red stains there. "Is this how I died?"

"That's what the report will say." Tommy lowered himself to sit beside Kit. "You were being vile to Frizer, you fought over who owed most for the reckoning, and Frizer stabbed you in self defence."

Kit raised a dubious eyebrow and immediately regretted it as the cut began to sting again. "Stabbed me above my eye. Where my skull protects me from such attacks."

Tommy shrugged and took the cloth from Kit, pressing it back over the cut, stopping the hot slide of blood over Kit's skin. "It's a good story."

Kit knew the value of a good story, and how little people would think to question it. With a groan, he leaned against Tommy, pulling one knee up as he closed his eyes. "Is it a story Frizer will swing for?"

"Probably not." Tommy's hand slid over Kit's hair, big and warm. A courtier's hand, skin soft and pale, controlling more strings than most people would ever expect. A worthy heir to his cousin's shadowed throne. "But he owes money to Skeres."

Kit winced. "Has he no wit?"

"Enough to be useful, still." Warmth pressed against Kit's head: Tommy's lips, a kiss. "I'll buy his debt."

And gain another man who owed him. Another man to use in service to the Crown. Another man in fear for his life, and another potential threat to Tommy. "Be cautious of him, my love."

"The great, reckless Christopher Marlowe counsels caution?" Tommy teased, and his fingers curled for a moment in Kit's hair, pulling gently. "I have an example in mind. Fear not for me."

"And why should I fear for the great spymaster?" Kit smiled, not opening his eyes. "It is thy purse I fear for."

"My purse is deep enough to fetch a surgeon for thee." Cool air whispered over Kit's forehead as Tommy lifted the cloth away. "This will need sewing."

Kit didn't move, perfectly content with his current position. "Will it scar, thinkst thou? Death should leave scars."

"It will not mar thy beauty." Tommy nudged against Kit, pushing him back to upright. "I did not expect France."

Kit allowed himself to be pushed, reaching up to touch fingertips to the cut above his eye, still damp and sticky with blood. "There are links to the Scottish crown. After Arbella... Scotland would seem more likely, but France makes sense."

"But after Flushing..." Tommy pushed Kit's hand out of the way, pressing the cloth back to the cut. "Hold that there."

Sighing, Kit shifted his balance, bringing both knees up to lean forward against them. "No more coining, I vow. Your surgeon will recognise me."

"My surgeon knows what will happen if he lets his lips flap loose." Tommy moved away, standing, going over to the door, his body long and lean, legs strong and fine in well-fitted hose. 

"Mmm, menace some more, my love, it suits you." Kit laughed, grinning at Tommy's dark look. "There is one visit I must pay before taking ship."

Tommy closed the door again, looking down at him. "Dead men pay no visits."

"This one does." Kit shifted the cloth, folding it and pressing it back against his brow. "He will not blab, Tommy. He has secrets of his own to keep. Secrets I hold over him."

"Secrets you have not shared with me?" Bringing over a bowl of water, Tommy dropped into a crouch in front of Kit, taking the cloth from him to rinse it. 

"Every man has secrets." Kit had secrets. Tommy had many more secrets that Kit would never know, or care to know. "He is no threat to the Crown."

Tommy squeezed out the cloth, lifting it to wipe blood from Kit's face. "If he were?"

"I would tell you," Kit said instantly, easily, eyes wide with innocence. It was close enough to a truth to stretch. "I would tell you of any true threat to the Crown. Or to you."

"You lie as beautifully and as easily as you breathe." One hand to the floor, Tommy leaned in to kiss Kit's lips, soft and warm and too brief by far. "I can have this man brought here to see you."

"And reveal his identity to you?" Kit shook his head with great care. "I must go to him. Just once, before I leave."

"I will still find his identity," Tommy promised softly. "You cannot leave here alone, Kit."

Kit took a deep breath, finding his path, careful through the briars. "Then come with me or have me followed, but wait outside. Know his identity without his having the knowledge that you have it."

Tommy lifted one of Kit's hands, wiping split knuckles and re-awakening pain. "I will come with you, and we can pretend that I do not know you are going to Shakespeare, and he can pretend that he does not know that we have been watching him since his play brought about the downfall of the Queen's most prominent questioner."

For a moment Kit studied Tommy in silence, candlelight flickering over planes of a face that had grown so much stronger in the past year, and then leaned forwards to kiss Tommy very gently, closing his eyes as blood spilled again from above his brow. "Yes. Let us pretend that. And for God's sake, let us also find me a chamber pot."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marlowe (or his spirit) pays a visit

Shakespeare's reaction was near dramatic enough to be worth dying for. Ever the actor, he turned pale when Kit sauntered into his lodgings. Blue eyes widened, and Shakespeare dropped back into a chair, his lips spilling nonsense until he clamped his hand over his own mouth.

"Always a pleasure," Kit drawled, and leaned back against Shakespeare's door. His doublet was already Deptford-stained, and would doubtless adorn some unfortunate corpse the next day for the funeral service. "You seem surprised to see me, Master Shakespeare."

"I should not be," Shakespeare said bitterly. "Oh, I should not be. What guilt do I bear for thy death, Marlowe?"

"Oh, none," Kit said, enjoying the shock running through him at Shakespeare's words, that Shakespeare had managed to surprise him. "Why, art thou accustomed to such visitations?"

"Be thou a spirit of health or a goblin damned..." Shakespeare muttered, pushing his fingers through his hair.

"That," Kit said, crossing to Shakespeare's desk, "is good. Write it down. Oh, and both, naturally. Although I dispute the goblin."

Plucking up a quill, Kit held it out to Shakespeare, nodding encouragement and not even trying to resist the urge to laugh at Shakespeare's apparent astonishment.

Slowly, glancing between Kit's face and his hand, Shakespeare reached out to take the quill, never quite touching Kit's skin. "Art thou a spirit?"

Kit shrugged. "I am no priest or philosopher to proclaim such. Art thou a spirit, or hast thou a spirit? Thy answer is mine."

Shakespeare dipped the quill into ink, his hand shaking as he followed Kit's orders, noting down his words. "Speak plain. Art thou dead?"

"Christopher Marlowe is dead," Kit said, as plain as he could be. "I? I breathe, I bleed, I am flesh, I am solid." He rapped the desk with his knuckles. "More I cannot say."

"Are you, then, not Christopher Marlowe?" Shakespeare set down the quill and lifted his head to stare at Kit, steadier, his colour returning.

"I _was_ Christopher Marlowe." Kit paced away from Shakespeare's consideration, no clear answer to the question in his mind. No inclination to assess it at Shakespeare's prompting. "Now? I know not."

"But you live," Shakespeare said, his voice closer than Kit expected.

Kit turned, temper rising at the persistence, to see Will within arm's reach, did he choose to reach out. "Aye, I live. Do you often hold conversation with ghosts?"

"More often than I would like." Close enough to feel breath, close enough that all Kit could see were Will's eyes, blue almost hidden by darkness. "Less often than I deserve."

"Then that is why thy plays are spirited." Kit reached out, swift, grasping Will's wrist, fabric creasing in his hand. "There, am I quick enough for thee?"

"Quicker than the grave." Will looked down at his wrist, at Kit's hand. "Why art thou here, if not to haunt me? We were told of thy death. The Rose mourns for thee."

Slowly, very deliberately, Kit released Will's wrist, one finger at a time uncurling, prolonging the contact. "Only the Rose? Now tis thy barbs cut me to the quick. I had hopes of all London, if not all England." Hopes of Will, loath as he was to confess such desires.

"The Rose, The Globe, Henslowe, Burbage, Ned Alleyn, even Kemp." Will smiled, an odd expression, crooked, not quite true, enough to give weight to Kit's hopes. "Thy memory is drowned in drink in every tavern in Bankside."

"Better my memory than my body," Kit said, touching fingertips to the cotton bound above his eye. "Haunting thee is neither my aim, nor my destiny."

"Then _why_ \- " Will stopped, visibly swallowing his words, a pointless, needless display of restraint.

"Am I here?" Kit suggested. "Did I die? Pick one, and I shall answer."

Will shook his head, rubbing his wrist as though he still felt traces of Kit's touch. "Just one?"

Approval lit through Kit like fire, kindling in recognition of curiosity, of persistence, of the power he had to grant or deny Will's unwilling demand. "Just one. Perhaps, next time we meet, I shall answer thee another."

"Then there shall be a next time," Will said, intent, insistence as well as acknowledging Kit's words. "Why art thou here, now, with me, instead of at thy wake?"

"Why art thou not at my wake?" Kit countered, nodding at Will's choice. "I am to leave London for a time. Last time I left London, you were so wanting for inspiration that you stole from Plautus."

"I needed something for Kemp," Will said, shaking his hand out and not meeting Kit's eyes, colour rising again in his face, voice tightening in apparent defence of his shitheap of a play. "Audiences were good. It played for three days and Burbage put it on again the next week."

"Audiences know _nothing_ ," Kit said, dismissing those who fawned over his talent. "Kemp is good, but did you have to write him a double part? It's _coarse_ , Will. Tis not worthy of thy talents."

"My talents like to eat," Will raised his head, eyes blazing as he glared at Kit. "My talents are nothing without a roof over my head, a bed to sleep in, and food in my belly."

"Then _have_ a roof and a bed." Kit grinned, wild, inspiration firing. "I cannot use them. A dead man has no house, or bed. You shall have my house, and write something better than Plautus. Seneca, maybe, or Ovid. You must do them better than Kyd did."

"Kyd..." Will backed away a step, choler draining. "Marlowe, Kyd is taken for questioning."

Kit laughed, leaning back. "Oh, I know. Talentless mother-swiving bastard gave them my name to save his own skin, and for Kyd I am slain. Do them better, Will. Write something worthy of thee. Kyd cannot challenge thee, and Marlowe is dead. Tis thy burden now, to write greatness."

"Of what use is greatness if audiences will not buy tickets to see it?" Will shouted, his hands in front of him, temper colouring his cheeks. "They came for Comedy. They came for Henry the Sixth."

"They came for Richard the Third," Kit countered, delighting in stirring Will's passion, catching both of Will's wrists and closing the space between them when Will furled hands in his doublet. "And there was greatness there. They came for Tamburlaine. They came for Faustus. Greatness will sell tickets _and_ fulfil thy soul, Master Shakespeare."

For a heartbeat, Kit thought Will would find the courage to kiss him, or at least to punch him, but Shakespeare merely shook his head and pushed Kit away, pulling his hands free again. "There was greatness in Two Gentlemen."

"There was poetry in Two Gentlemen," Kit agreed, not moving, watching Will move away from him. "There were marks of greatness. Your Comedy was but a trifle, of no substance. It will not _last_."

"But it will feed me," Will said more steadily, turning back to face Kit. "I am son to a glover, Marlowe. There is no money if I do not earn."

"And I am son to a shoemaker," Kit said with a shrug. "Our parents do not limit us. Only our own minds can do that."

"You're..." Will blinked in gratifying surprise. "But you're..."

"Dead," Kit said with a smile. "And yet I remain. Take the house, Will. Write your greatness and feed your stomach and soul."

"I cannot." Will shook his head, pacing again, infuriating in his stubborn determination. "I will not take thy house."

Kit shrugged, tiring of the argument. "Then do not take the house. But do not limit yourself. Read Seneca, find a source worthy of your talent. My books will be delivered to you."

Will stared at him. "Why do you do this?"

Smiling, Kit crossed the room to pat Will's shoulder, keeping hold as he leaned in to kiss Will's forehead. "Because the world needs greatness. And it can no longer have mine, so yours must shine brighter."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kit both gives and receives orders.

The bed in the Southwark tavern proved gratifyingly sturdy, and more comfortable than its appearance had led Kit to believe. Pleasantly spent, he rested his head back against the bolster, fingers tracing lazy lines over Tommy's neck and shoulders. "I shall miss thee."

"And I thee," Tommy murmured, his hand straying to Kit's hip, covering ink laid deep into his skin. "I do not know how long France will have need of thee."

" _France_ has no need of me." Turning his head, Kit pressed a kiss to Tommy's hair, curls brushing against his nose. "England has need of me in France, and England is a jealous mistress."

Tommy laughed softly, settling more solidly against Kit's side. "One that we share."

"And still the doxy will not share us." Kit smiled, closing his eyes, soaking in the warmth of Tommy's skin against his own, the ache of satisfaction a balance to the soreness still in his head. "I hear your cousin has found a wife for you."

"For the Queen's favour." Tommy rolled onto his back, not breaking contact. "And for money. Not for my heart, Kit. Never my heart."

"Thy heart is mine," Kit agreed, taking pleasure in the reminder, and rolled to his side in response, propping himself up on on elbow to savour the length of Tommy's body laid out for him, lean and pale in the candlelight. "Thy body is thine own to dispose. To share as thou wilt."

"Had I the choice..." Tommy closed his eyes, jaw tight as he swallowed as if braced for Kit's objection.

Kit's objection remained unspoken, still true, the resentment that Tommy still believed himself constrained, controlled by convention, bound by limits to which he chose to subscribe. It was pointless to state it again. Tommy had heard it before, Kit had spoken it before, and neither mind seemed to have changed in the intervening time. "Thy choice is made, then."

"As is thine." Tommy turned his head, eyes opening slowly, heavy and dark in the dancing light of the flame. "England has our command."

"Bitch that she is." Kit ran a finger along Tommy's clavicle, lingering at the base of his throat. "I would take my orders over thine, darling."

"I already have thy orders." Tommy's smile spread slow and warm, eyes half-closing. "And would follow them again."

Kit grinned satisfaction, flattening his hand over Tommy's chest. "Perhaps one more time tonight."

"Only once?" Tommy turned his head, meeting Kit for a slow kiss, simmering warmth and promise. "Hast thou lost ambition?"

"Perhaps twice." Kit laughed, curving his fingers to press nails to Tommy's skin. "First, I need a promise."

"Anything," Tommy promised, careless, reckless, covering Kit's hand with his own and squeezing it.

Kit turned his hand to take Tommy's, holding it still, close to wishing he could let Tommy keep that innocence, knowing he needed to break it if Tommy was to survive. "I'm serious, Thomas."

Tommy quirked an eyebrow, still smiling. "Then it must be to do with your work."

"My writing." Work, and more than work, and the last thing Christopher Marlowe would ever write. Perhaps the greatest. "It is a thing that only you can do for me."

"Ah." Tommy's smile faded, replaced by focus. "Master Tylney."

"Even he." The Devil had been hard to pass by the Master of the Revels. Edward and Gaveston would need more. "Edward must be approved for performance."

"And he has rejected it?" Tommy's brow furrowed. "He has not mentioned it."

"He would," Kit said drily. "Oh, he would. He has not yet seen it."

Tommy opened his mouth, then closed it again without speaking. Kit watched his face, the ease and trust gone, consideration and assessment instead, the agent in place of his lover. "Because you died."

"I died," Kit said quietly. "For England, I died. I cannot argue my play's merits, and I cannot allow it to be revised to suit Master Tylney's sensibilities. It must stand. It must tell its truth. Our truth."

"Our truth," Tommy repeated, and released Kit's hand, pushing himself up to sit, one knee raised. "What have you written, Kit?"

"That love may be our downfall, but it is never our damnation." Kit scrambled up, leaning closer, needing Tommy to hear the words, to feel them. "That a man may love a man, and that the world may hate him for it even though he be a king, but that love is not his damnation."

"Kit..." Tommy lifted his hand, letting it rest in the air for a moment before he dropped it, shaking his head. "Tylney will never approve a play that shows a king with a man as his lover."

"He must," Kit insisted, holding Tommy's gaze, unrelenting. "They both die, Tommy. Gaveston is hanged, and Edward..."

"Edward and _Gaveston?_ " Tommy repeated, his tone rising, his cheeks blanched pale. " _King_ Edward. A monarch, and her majesty’s own direct forefather. You wrote of a monarch's death and a man's love and you want me to have this approved?"

Kit shook his head, impatient with Tommy’s scruples. "Those who bring down the monarch are overthrown in their turn, and Edward's son takes the throne. There is no threat to the Crown in my play."

"Your king _dies_." Tommy swung around, his back to Kit, hands at his sides, grasping the edge of the bed.

"My king is weak." Shifting to his knees, Kit settled himself against Tommy's back, his lips to Tommy's ear. "It is his weakness that kills him, not his love. Not his crown. It must be played, Thomas. It must be seen."

"And if, _if_ it is passed, who will play it?" Tommy shook his head, not moving away. "The Rose will not perform it."

"Burbage will," Kit said, inspiration and invention granted him. "Richard Burbage is building a new playhouse, an enclosed playhouse. He will need plays."

"Richard Burbage has Shakespeare," Tommy said quietly. "Kit..."

Kit pressed closer, sliding his hand over Tommy's chest, down, down. "Read it, Tommy. Before you declare it a lost cause, read it. Know what it is that you disdain."

Tommy let out a soft sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan of frustration and pleasure, his head dropping back to rest next to Kit's as Kit's hand reached his destination. "If I read it, I make no promises regarding Master Tylney."

"You will after you read it," Kit murmured, curling his fingers closed. "I'll write to you. Messages. Your private cypher."

"My private..." Tommy broke off into a shaky breath. "Kit..."

"Your private Kit," Kit agreed softly, kissing Tommy's cheek. "Wilt thou read it, my love?"

"If you do not stop," Tommy said unevenly. "Oh, Kit..."

"Yes," Kit agreed, exultation warm in his chest, Tommy warm in his hand, and turned his attention to his current task.


End file.
